


gonna give my heart away

by kevystel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Hetalia Kink Meme, Historical, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Minor Violence, Sexual Content, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/pseuds/kevystel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deanon from the kink meme, for the prompt 'friends with benefits'. Mentions of war and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gonna give my heart away

**Author's Note:**

> title from glory box by portishead

England’s French is very nearly perfect, which is why he does not speak it. France slides easily into English as he approaches, mangling the words as much as possible to see England scowl.

‘You are the last person I expected to see today.’

1802\. An uneasy peace: Europe holding its breath. Perhaps tomorrow they’ll go to war. Time slips through France’s fingers. He is swollen from his revolution, from the blood of all Europe. And England’s flushed, now, nose pink as a child’s in the bitter street. The afternoon is warm with perfumes and alight with France’s smile, and England, poised grimly at the centre of it all, is a cat with claws sheathed. He falls reluctantly into step beside France. His cheeks are dusted with the September breeze, and the slant of his mouth crooked and ugly. France wants to break him.

‘The whole world’s in Paris this month, you wanker.’

‘And a good decision on their part,’ France says. England is right: France is rich with visitors these days. The lull in the fighting has brought them in droves over the Channel, starving for France. ‘Have you been to the exhibition?’

England sniffs. ‘A few paintings of Italy’s. Nothing I couldn’t do.’

‘So you have not,’ says France lightly. ‘Your lack of taste, it astounds me. I will take you to the Louvre, perhaps you will have some semblance of culture by the next time I see you.’

‘What is _that_ ,’ says England, ‘some kind of venereal disease?’

He takes France’s arm. They’ll be at each other’s throats by morning. Napoleon is brilliant and bold, and France is riding the wave of empire. England’s strength is built on his banks; the money can’t last forever. In a few years — a very few, if France’s luck holds — France will have him in his palm again.

England’s eyes are wary and cool. He knows this.

‘How long will you be here?’

England shrugs, an absent-minded motion under his thick riding coat. ‘Not long. Two or three days.’ He glances at France, oddly unguarded, and looks away quickly. ‘Well then. Hail us a coach, if you please.’

France blinks. ‘Whatever for?’

‘You said you’d show me around, didn’t you?’ He flinches away as a horse-carriage splashes past them, wheels sweet and slippery on the cobblestones. ‘I haven’t got all day. And the less time I spend with you, the better.’

‘Why, do it yourself then.’ If that were their habit, France might draw England close (in the street, in a damp and drafty upstairs room on the road to Kent, watching their kings joust with cynical amusement on the Field of the Cloth of Gold), and feather his mouth over England’s temple — only England might die of shock, which would be entertaining but also a shame. England is well-fed and well-defended. France hopes to change that.

‘Your coachmen don’t like me.’

‘Ah, you will have to get used to that,’ France sighs, ‘there is no one I can think of who is very fond of you at present, least of all myself,’ and flags down a passing stagecoach anyway.

He can feel England’s gaze prickling on the back of his neck; he is not surprised, not entirely, when England touches his elbow.

‘Come back with me to my inn. It’s not far.’

‘I thought you might say that.’

(1904: they will shake hands over the signing of the treaty and pretend it means something. But that is a long time away. Next week, next year, France will take aim when England comes stumbling and bleeding up the hill, mud sloshing under his boots and all the ache of centuries in France’s head; he will not hesitate before he fires.)

‘Well?’ England is always a strange mixture of matter-of-fact and embarrassed when he proposes their trysts. France can see the blood rising in England’s cheeks. It could be endearing if France let it. He taps his chin, pretending to think.

‘You will have to be more persuasive.’

England glowers, then cocks his head and says in a deliberately terrible accent, ‘ _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?_ ’

‘One day I shall kill you,’ France murmurs, and adores him very much, just then.

* * *

When France comes into England’s hotel room on the second night of a conference, the world turns upside down very quietly. He is smiling _hello_ against England’s mouth in the doorway before England can register it.

‘Oh. Oh, hello,’ says England as his hands go to France’s waist. ‘Why are you here?’

France is still dressed for the meeting, cologne cloying on England’s tongue. But he looks looser, somehow softer, rumpled from today — his jacket’s off and his hair is falling into his face and he’s rolled his sleeves up. His long eyelashes brush England’s cheek.

‘To express my mild, only my very mild displeasure,’ says France, toeing off his shoes and socks. He backs England a little further into the room and shuts the door smoothly behind them. ‘You have put Waterloo Station at the end of our Channel Tunnel. It is a poor attempt at insult, I could be deeply offended if I chose, I did not lose to you at Waterloo, after all…’

‘How the _fuck_ can anyone think you won the battle of Waterloo — oh god do that again — I beat you black and blue, I’ll have you know.’

England drags France in closer and kisses the worn weariness out of them both, till France is murmuring drowsy endearments with his hands up England’s shirt. It’s a little like being drunk: the soft dim evening, and music drifting up to the windows, and the thick familiar heat of France half-hard against his hip.

‘In defeat, a moral victory,’ France says. He’s beautiful in the scornful way France has, all high cheekbones and petulant mouth — it hurts England’s head to look at him. France’s hair slips from its ponytail. The television blares. England brushes his thumb over France’s lips and shivers a little when France turns his cheek into England’s palm.

‘I’ll show you moral victory. Get on the bed.’

France hooks one bare foot neatly behind England’s knees and pushes him down instead. England is tempted to shove him, just for the satisfaction of it, and doesn’t. France — bright-eyed, utterly frustrating — is crawling on top of him and tangling the sheets around their ankles and whispering again, nonsensically, ‘Hello,’ heavy and greedy and warm and mouth curving into a smile against England’s throat. England can feel teeth.

‘Yes, all right, hello yourself.’ He catches France’s wrists and traps them. France hums, apparently not minding at all; he makes a low, needy sound in the back of his throat as England ruts against him, and England is infuriated.

He expresses this accordingly.

There’s a mutter of background noise from the television, which England hardly hears. His hands are in France’s hair. His own hair’s still wet from the shower, and France smoothes it back out of habit, cups England’s cheek for no reason at all, a brief unthinking caress. For a long time they don’t speak. Then France hisses in irritation.

‘Turn that off,’ he pouts.

‘Why?’

‘I am more interesting than the recent news in Europe.’

‘You _are_ the recent news in Europe. Christ.’ England half-sits up and feels around for the remote. France isn’t helping. France is breathing hard, his fine shirt sliding off his shoulders, and mouthing damply at England’s knuckles. He has an obsession with sucking on England’s fingers and being obscenely noisy about it, being very good with his mouth, he drives England mad.

When England at last finds the remote under a pillow and switches the television off, France rewards him by biting. England _loathes_ France.

‘Mmm, and what have you been up to, then?’

‘Oh,’ says England. They fall back down together. ‘Many things. Jam-packed, you know, my schedule. I’m very busy.’

‘You’re very annoying and your clothes are in the way.’

‘ _Such_ a charmer. Do tell me more.’

France has lubricant because of course he does. The air’s cool in the hotel room, and the slide of skin on skin very, very hot; it’s heady and relaxed, and somehow confusing, almost tender. France’s breath tickles England’s ear, and then his hip, as France scoots back. He rubs his palms together to warm up the lube before slipping a finger in; then abruptly he ducks his head and takes England into his mouth.

‘Stop,’ England gasps, after nearly losing himself in France’s throat. The rich, slick friction and France’s finger moving in him up to the knuckle are too much. He pulls France’s hair till France eases off, pupils full-blown and hand tight around England’s cock. A thread of precome clings to France’s bottom lip and England’s insides are hot and messy, raw and undone — the sleepy sweep of France’s eyelashes and his knowing, curling smile. France licks a fat hungry stripe from base to tip and England smacks him. ‘No, shut up. Come here. I’m too close.’

‘Forgive me, dear,’ France tells him, sitting up, and slaps his arse in retribution. Over England’s outrage he continues in French, ‘I could not help myself. Only relax, please. You are so tight it makes me wonder how you have room for that stick up your arse.’

‘Fuck you. Get on with it.’

France is predictable and England growls a little at his swollen sidelong grin. ‘You will have to be more persuasive.’

‘ _Va te faire foutre_ ,’ offers England politely. He’s in the mood to compromise on language after France has been sucking his cock. He’s generous these days. ‘ _Je te d_ _éteste_.’

‘And I you. Very good.’ France’s laughter is a bit giddy — he’s got a poorly disguised affinity for French spoken with an English accent, for England moaning beneath him, the sweet spreading ache of France’s fingers opening him slowly. Tosser. England’s vision blurs, full of France: leaning over England, careful and calculating, taking them apart with slow practised hands and cock and tongue. His eyes are dark with concentration. He pushes a strand of hair behind his ear, a small unconscious gesture. England inhales.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘You on your back, begging to be fucked thoroughly and well. Do you mind?’

‘Not at all,’ England tells him helpfully, hooking his legs over France’s shoulders. ‘I’m extremely hygienic. I took a nice long shit when I got back this evening and thought of you.’

‘My god,’ says France. ‘I find it very upsetting, do you know, that you can say that and I still want to sleep with you.’ And France, damn him, is a top-notch lover as always, the only thing about France you can rely on — the steady, sure push of his long fingers and the dip of his head as he presses a kiss to England’s stomach — saying, ‘Raise your hips a little more, _oui_ , like that.’

England cooperates. He’s very considerate. ‘Shall I get on my hands and knees so you can admire your reflection in the television screen?’

‘You have _no right to judge me_ ,’ says France furiously, with three fingers deep into England. ‘You have sex with your socks on!’

‘That was one time!’

‘I cannot believe you,’ France snarls. There is a wet pause as he nudges England’s knees further apart and slides forward, excruciatingly slow. England hisses and France groans and buries his nose in the sweat-damp crook of England’s neck. ‘I am _inside you_ and you are ruining the moment. Why?’

‘Why not?’ says England, relishing it.

‘I like you much better when you’re silent.’

‘Or absent,’ England supplies. France makes a ragged noise and drops his head on England’s shoulder as he sets their rhythm. England’s head swims; he wraps his legs around France’s waist, feeling himself stretched white with tension.

‘Or dead. _Je t’adore._ Please, please stop talking.’

‘Maybe if you were better at shutting me up —’

France slams into him. ‘Like that?’

There’s something about this, the frank and comfortable coarseness of sex, which makes one pliant. England’s words are wiped out of him. He comes in a few moments, twenty minutes, an hour — without a sound, with a whimper, with a bitten-off cry which France swallows.

France’s voice cuts lazily through the roar in England’s head.

‘Shh. Breathe. You are wonderful like this, do you know? Next time I will gag you, would you like that? I know I would. I am curious. I’ve been considering the idea for some time.’

‘I’m going to cut your head off,’ England fumes when he gets his breath back. But there’s little heat in it; he’s loose and honey-soft and practically purring, because France is desperately close. ‘Or perhaps I’ll have your cock, I don’t care much for the rest of you.’

‘Oh, well,’ says France carelessly, lifting England’s leg a little higher. ‘I have been guillotined before, it is not so unpleasant as you think.’

‘God I hate you, I hate you so much.’ He tucks his face into France’s warm shoulder. ‘I’d ride you, you know, but I rather think it isn’t worth the effort. I may fall asleep while you’re fucking me. I’m very old and my bones are aching.’

‘ _I want to stab you_ ,’ says France.

‘Again? The last time was a bayonet in 1756. I’m interested to see what you have in mind.’ He pushes up towards France, rocking into France, gasping through France’s seasick thrusts. A dull overstimulated pleasure settles in his limbs. France pitches forward, a see-saw rhyme that sings in England’s ears — oh, the ludicrousness of them, of mock-French set to music by the Beatles, _Michelle, ma belle, sont des mots qui vont tr_ _ès bien ensemble…_ ‘Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be meeting Germany?’

‘I already have.’ France’s words are slurred and panting. ‘Surely you’re not jea —’

‘Why would I be?’ He clenches deliberately tight and France whines. ‘America sends his regards.’

‘I am very sure he doesn’t,’ France says, and comes long and hard and shamelessly.

After that, the night blurs into a dream well-worn, faded and routine. England sleeps tucked into France like a bird in its nest. He never knows if France will stay the night and he never asks. He remembers asking instead, as France heaves a shaky sigh and collapses beside him onto the sheets, ‘Well. Cup of tea?’

France laughs at him, a broken sound, and pulls him close. ‘No.’

‘I’ll make you one anyway.’ But neither of them get up.

France’s lips rest at the nape of his neck. Words flutter behind his teeth and resolve into soft-coloured images: France feeding him croissants in a café in the heart of Paris. They held hands once, briefly, passing the arch of London Bridge and looking down into the eternal river that had seen Rome — but they haven’t done it again since. They’re not bloody domestic. France knows his way around England’s flat in the dark but not at all in the daytime, blinking in surprise at morning. France comes up behind him sometimes, when England wakes at dawn in the stifling warmth of France’s home and smokes on the balcony, to lead him back to bed.

But France sinks into his lungs, now, with his arms snug around England and the curve of his long back gleaming in the curtain-caught moonlight. France’s hair tacks to the pillow and the room smells of _France_ , of them, the traces of their clothes cast away in the shipwreck of their lovemaking. So much of France has seeped into his bones. And what a fearful mess this is. A very soft catastrophe in the footnotes of history books. Here are all the secrets the politicians don’t know, collected, purely by accident, in the dust under his bed.

France reaches across him and switches the bedside lamp off without looking. England knows he’ll be gone in the morning. And if he isn’t, which does happen, the universe will come apart at the seams. It’s only a hotel after all — and tomorrow France will be scolding at the conference table. England is exhausted, the full sated exhaustion of sex, so that his thoughts run incoherent and content. He pulls away from France and sleeps soundly as the night cools the sweat on their skin.

He is not quite awake when he hears, or thinks he hears, France whisper: ‘Would you like me to stay tonight?’

He’s dreaming.

He turns his face into the pillow and does not answer.

(Remember: the broken ends of their alliances in wartime. Millions upon millions of lives all choking in his throat. England keeps a very early daguerreotype of… who is it? Some poet, officer, artist, a portrait by some obscure photographer who saw his subject in the street. Some monsieur Bonnefoy nobody knows. It came into England’s possession somehow and it’s hidden in his desk drawer under a pile of unanswered letters and telegrams because _France can never know_ , oh god, England would never live it down. It is stiff and unflattering (by France’s standards) because people hadn’t yet learned to pose for photographs. He takes it out occasionally, for no reason he can think of. They change as their people change but some parts of England are disconcertingly his own. He doesn’t know what to do with them. All those voices and heartbeats burn in his head. Some things are immortal. Feel. Remember. Here is the enemy who loves you.)

* * *

After the war France is newly scarred, from Somme and Verdun and a thousand other battles carved into his flesh. England licks every one till France is keening beneath him.

They quarrel, later, over what to do with Germany. England can taste the ashes of France’s burned and bloody fields in his mouth.

* * *

After the war France is quite sure he trusted England more when they were fighting each other.

All the shouting in his head cannot drown out the tramp of boots across the continent. England never smiles, but there is a softening around the corners of his eyes and mouth when he looks at France sometimes. It’s gone before France can draw breath. He thinks there is not enough room for the resentment in his blood, and surprises himself every time.

London crumbles under German bombs. France expected to see it burning. England says, ‘Took you long enough.’

He is cordial enough to speak French to his guest. He has one eye missing and a bandage wrapped around his head, and he teeters slightly as he walks, a shell-shocked pirate on the delirious deck of his ship. France has no sympathy for him. He hopes England will fall too. No, no, my gallant friend, England will win the war for them both. One step and he falls into England — he wants to peel himself away and watch the old wounds open with it, defeat is humiliation enough without his resistance taking orders from England. One step away and Vichy burns like a blood clot. If he blinks he is on the ground again, cursing, fleeing, dying, British and French soldiers alike cowering under the rain of fire and crying, _where’s the fucking RAF?_

‘Good to see you back on your feet.’

‘Oh, is _that_ what you think now?’ says France. ‘You were in such a hurry to get back on the boat once you thought I could not beat Germany. A pity you weren’t so quick when you could actually have helped.’

England’s grip on his arm is painful. England steers them down the corridor and leans in, muffling his words under Churchill’s impatient cough. ‘Don’t you dare blame me for this. Cup of tea?’

‘No. And how very like you.’

‘I’ll make you one anyway. Listen, you…’ He cuts himself off, teeth bared in snarling courtesy. France has come to London and England is nothing if not a good host. England isn’t a pretty sight up close. We will stand together and thus we shall conquer. ‘Just listen. We’ve got to stick together if we want to see the end of it. You need me.’

France keeps his temper with difficulty. ‘I do not and will never need you.’

But when they’re alone, France slips. And why? He sinks, shifts, buries his face in England’s shoulder. They are side by side, pulse to pulse, and it’s enough to make one cry. The sharp unwashed scent of England’s uniform takes France by surprise; he expected England to smell always the same, a little soft, a little comforting. England is a solid warmth at France’s side as he turns and tucks his chin on top of France’s head. He slides an arm around France, tight as a vice. England abandoned him. England could swallow him up, if France let him. They sit like that in the meeting room, breathing, for what seems like a very long time.

Much, much later, when the war is over and they have come home, England opens, uncurls, curves around France — puts his arms around him and doesn’t let him go.

England can’t sleep without an arm or a leg thrown over France. It’s a habit worn deep into their bones, ever since England was a child no bigger than a tree stump. Under the covers he’s very warm, turning this way and that with little half-conscious whimpers of pain or comfort. He stirs and mumbles into France’s throat, ‘De Gaulle hates me.’

‘As do I,’ France mutters, and kisses him long enough to melt.

* * *

April 1904. The _entente cordiale_. At the time, it doesn’t mean much: only a pause, a drawing of breath, another shift in the shifting world. When his people cheer England’s king in the streets of Paris France isn’t thinking of England any more kindly than usual. England watches him distrustfully and kisses France’s hand, in a mockery of good breeding.

‘Think it’ll last?’ England’s hair is splayed out on the pillow; sunset slips through the curtains and gleams on his collarbone. He has one careless arm thrown over France’s chest and right now, sleep-flushed, lips bruised, he is the most gorgeous thing France has ever seen. France does not tell him this.

‘Does it matter?’

France’s memories take on sharp colours. Maps changing around them, names blurring, empires unmade, old and new alliances building inexorably to the breaking point. Looking back, this moment will be tainted by a tension that fills every corner, a continent waiting to break. Everything in France’s past is warped by his present, so that he tangles himself in knots trying to uncover the truth. Is he remembering things or imagining them? It isn’t important, anyway. They are not made to think but to endure.

1914\. England fills the trenches with bawdy songs and the screams of dying men. France has forgotten the sound of Jeanne’s voice; some nights, he closes his eyes, and can taste the smoke of burning flesh in his nostrils. They are children half-formed, naming each other before they learn to speak. It’s 1963 and England is on his doorstep; France doesn’t want him there. He buckles under the weight of a thousand years.

So, now. Here. Here’s England’s lips brushing his cheek and England pulling off his hat and gloves to warm his hands before the fire. Cigar smoke and steam trains. After America invents the telephone France discovers he can get hold of England whenever he likes, and is delighted, and England is very, very irritated. England’s dry chuckle behind a newspaper. The wind on the banks of the Thames. He can hardly breathe trying to take in it all.

England asks, _how long have you loved me?_ (No, England wouldn’t ask that, it is not in his nature; he would only wonder.) He says _never_ , and _always_ , and _not yet_.

‘Why do I bother,’ England grumbles, catching the lapels of France’s waistcoat to bring him nearer — England’s nose is cold and he misses France’s mouth at first, kisses his jaw instead, breathes, and it’s awkward and uncomfortable and perfect.

France does not think exactly what his leaders think and can’t be expected to. There’s too much of him to agree with himself at any time. Here is England, whom France could love, if only he were not England. Here’s France and the living and the dead shouting across the water. Their bitter quarrels, their long silences. France forgets; in place of a greeting, he says in French, _you look beautiful_ , and England pretends not to understand.

So. When France thinks of England, he isn’t thinking anything at all. He feels… what? Only time swimming behind his eyelids. He is fat with voices. It’ll be a hundred different things at once: a warm smoky night in a Calais inn, America, Agincourt, England’s sharp smirk glinting in the Hall of Mirrors. The London fog clinging to their backs. In the nineteenth century England sported a truly ridiculous moustache. It tickled and France laughed and England, who was quite naked and very drunk, gave up and went to the window in a huff.

* * *

And now: France leaning against the wall in a London tube station. His hair’s newly cut and tied back and he looks young, almost human. It’s the eyes that give him away; it’s the feline sleekness of his posture as he looks up, catches England’s eye, slides his phone back into his pocket and straightens. France was a pretty child but it took centuries to perfect him. England says _bonsoir_ , and, at France’s startled glance, switches to English. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just dropping by,’ France says. ‘A friendly visit, surely I can do that from time to time, can I not?’

‘No one ever said you couldn’t. How long do I have to put up with you?’

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ France’s whole body ripples with his shrug, lazy and elegant and impossible. ‘A few days at the most. I am staying at a hotel not far from here, the food is of course dreadful, my stomach turns over just thinking about it.’

‘Why didn’t you call?’ Too late to take it back now. England forces himself to go on. ‘You could have stayed with me.’

‘This is a trap of some kind. It is all a ploy to make me cook for you.’ France puts a hand on England’s shoulder to guide him towards the exit — without asking where England’s heading, insufferable git — and they emerge into the open street. His eyes are liquid above the folds of his scarf. ‘But you are very clever! Aren’t you going to say that you have missed me?’

‘Aren’t you going to invite me back to your hotel?’

‘I will let you in on a secret,’ says France. ‘There is no hotel. I meant to surprise you. And here you are.’

People brush past them as they trail towards England’s flat — England, spread out for France to see. In the chilly air beside the fountain (where they pause at a newspaper stand, and France rolls his eyes at the state of England’s wallet), they’re no one. According to the flutter of pigeon wings and children eating ice creams on the cathedral steps and their reflections in the store windows, England’s just a man, and France is only a foreigner. France certainly saunters like a tourist, fingers curling in his pockets and nose turned up. If only people knew. If only they knew that England is the sum of their small joys and frustrations as they go about their busy lives; if only they knew that their thoughts create him.

He nods at a half-empty café, cheap and good. ‘Stop for dinner?’

France takes the folded-up newspaper from England, grimacing at the smell of ink. There’s something soft and contented in the lines of his face.

‘Very well.’

If only France weren’t France, England might take his hand in the street now: _I love you, do you know? Do you mind?_ God, no. He’ll go to his grave before that. There are whole universes in the words unspoken. There’s a lifetime in France’s smile. If only, if only.

And at night: France yawning, stretching, mumbling something about being thirsty. France drinks more coffee than England will ever have a use for. He’ll put the kettle on, and the coffee pot, and they will sit at the table with its aging magazines and its ring-shaped stains from forever ago, and watch the steam rise from their cups in silence. They’ll turn on the telly and studiously not listen to the news, or curl up on the soft upholstered settee that was ordinary when England bought it but probably costs a fortune now.

France is putting his clothes on, mouth furled in concentration as he examines the buttons of his shirt, and England, from the bed, reaches out and catches his wrist.

‘Take you out tomorrow?’

And France nods, smiles, says, ‘Tomorrow, then,’ and. And it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> 1802: The Treaty of Amiens was a 14-month breather in between the French Revolutionary Wars and the Napoleonic Wars. The exposition des produits français was held in the Louvre during this time, and attracted a lot of upper-class British visitors.
> 
> the Field of the Cloth of Gold: In 1520, Henry VIII and Francis I met here in an extravagant show of friendship. They were at war again a couple of years later.
> 
> in such a hurry to get back on the boat: Dunkirk.
> 
> England’s king in the streets of Paris: Edward VII charmed lots of people when he visited France. 
> 
> 1963: Charles de Gaulle vetoes Britain’s application to join the EEC.


End file.
